Scars
by Asukai Haruka
Summary: The scar over her eye is not the only scar that Weiss bears, she has so many more hidden under her sleeves, and countless scars marking her soul. She has been broken beyond repair and has long been labeled a gone case; all she desires now is freedom. Most of the events in this story have been made up by me and are NOT canon (hence, it is a fanfiction). Warning: self-harm


**A/N: I love Weiss very much; she is my favorite character of the series, as I find "Mirror Mirror" extremely relatable. I have drawn on my own emotions to produce the Weiss in this story, and most of the events that transpire in this story are not canon, which translates to "I made them up". I hope that this will be an enjoyable read for all of you!**

**Okay, enough with the babbling and on with the story! **

**Haruka**

**Weiss' POV**

Scars will never disappear, I know, for I have plenty of them and have harbored them for years. Every single scar remains, incessantly tormenting me, even those that have been there from my early childhood. I remember all of them, for it is impossible to forget. The pain does not go away with time, it will haunt me forever; it only dulled when I became so used to it that I could no longer feel it. And when it began to dull… it was the time I started worrying, for it meant that my heart was beginning to die. I do not care anymore, I feel now that the faster my heart dies, the better it will be for me. All the words that they tell me to comfort me… they are hollow, empty assurances. I know, because I have been through it countless times and am not gullible enough to be fooled again. I have learned that, in this dark and cruel world, no one can be trusted. Everyone out there is lying to me, they all say that they will always be there for me, but when the time comes where I need them most, I turn around to find out that _no one's there_.

They tell me that self-harm is not the answer, I look down at the scars that line my forearms and I know that they have lied to me once again. If these scars never existed, I will not be here today, rapier in hand and a haughty look on my face, acting like the world's most spoilt princess. Ever since I was a child, I have etched these lines into my skin, crossing over old ones when I ran out of space, each line a mark of the agony I have failed to contain. These pale lines have saved my life, every single cut; they have pulled me back from the edge of no return and helped me stem the tide of my tears. My self-harm displeases my parents immensely, however, I have lost count of the number of psychiatrists and counselors I have been forced to see for my "problem". Every single one of them tells me the same thing, that self-harm is wrong and it does not help, I never bother listening to them, and I skip out on these sessions as much as I can. They can never fix me; I am too far broken for that, my parents are almost desperate enough to lock me up in a rubber room.

They tell me that suicide is wrong, that someone will miss me if I die. That sounds fine and all, but it gets me thinking, _who really will_? Everyone keeps saying that _someone_ will but they never tell me "_I_ will", is it wrong for me to wonder if anyone would care at all? Everyone keeps pointing fingers at someone else, and I eventually realized that there remains absolutely no one to point at in the end. I learned that "someone" translates to "no one", I learned that no one cared and no one ever would; it hurt, and on my chest there is a jagged heart-shape I carved in an attempt at suicide to free myself from that pain. I had dug the knife deep into my chest, but unfortunately, I had not managed to damage any major organs. It was costly, but I survived, and was put on cycles of antidepressants that made me feel like a zombie.

They have always told me that my "fear" of mirrors is unfounded, they ask me if I am afraid of being sucked into them or having my reflected self come alive like a monster. As usual, the counselors understand nothing, and they have often forced me to stand before mirrors and tried to soothe me as I struggled and cried, telling me, "Nothing will happen, Weiss, sweetie. See? You're still right here." I longed to scream at them to let me go, to tell them that they know nothing about me and should stop forcing me to look at my reflection. I am not afraid of mirrors, I am afraid of what they show me: my true, wounded, scarred self.

My parents tell me that they love me and care about me deeply, but in his rage and disappointment, my father will constantly abuse me; he used to throw me from one end of a room to the other when I was still small enough for him to do so. I used to cry, to plead him to stop, I used to beg for his forgiveness whilst I screamed in pain, tears rolling down my cheeks, but eventually, the pain dulled as my body toughened. I became limp as a rag doll and never reacted to his beatings, enduring all that he threw at me calmly. Sometimes, when he was through with me, I would find out that I could no longer stand, that my body was numb all over and the white of my skin had nearly completely been overtaken by the ugly black and blue of fresh bruises. I would just stay where I was until a servant rushed to get me medical attention, and would lie about the origin of my injuries to counselors and social workers. Once, my father took a knife to me in blind fury after another bout of my "depression drama", he was infuriated at the way the public gossiped about my condition and the reasons for it; that was how I got the scar over my eye. He loathed that I was bringing shame to the "good name" of the Schnee family, he loathed that I, such a broken and pathetic creature, was his daughter. Even now, he still hates me, and the feeling is mutual.

Those are just physical scars, and though they hurt, the pain that they bring cannot be compared to the agony the invisible scars in my body force me to endure every living moment of every day. I am a broken soul, that has been established in the early years of my life. Always expected to be perfect, raised in a strict and unfeeling environment, it was no wonder that a child would grow up not right in the head. How could one not be depressed in a household like mine, laden with expectations and devoid of warmth, love and emotion? I was always alone, given more material goods than I could ever want, molded to be the heiress that the Schnee family wanted; I always hated that.

Loneliness, sadness, anger, hatred, fear, exhaustion, self-hatred, they were the emotions that stayed by my side throughout my life. Gradually, defiance had joined them, fueled by the hatred that burned in my heart for my parents, I am a soul filled with negative emotions. I rarely smiled as a child; my eyes were hollow and glassy, like a doll's, especially when I was on those antidepressants. I never had a friend, having always been alone in the mansion save for the servants, and my parents rarely bought me toys as they wanted me to focus on my studies from the very beginning, hence, I did not even have a silly stuffed animal to confide in. While other children were playing with dolls or running around outside, I was in an air-conditioned environment learning to read and write and do arithmetic. I was also being fed information about the Schnee Dust Company and the way Dust worked; I first read the family's _Dust for Dummies _guide at the age of four and had it memorized by the age of five. I was brainwashed to believe that the Company was upright and outstanding from an early age; that view was crushed completely on my first visit to the Schnee Company's Dust mines, though. I was trained in law to defend the Company from slander which was obviously true and encouraged to be heartless and money-minded. Unfortunately for my father, his daughter had a heart and she refused to be the monster he wanted, no matter how many times he tried to beat her into submission.

At night, I would slump into my bed and wish I had a friend to talk to, to play with; I wanted a bunk bed once so that I could pretend that my room was not painfully empty. With a bunk bed, I could imagine that I had a friend or a sibling asleep above me, that I was not alone. I would cry myself to sleep every night from the age of four, curling into a tight little ball under the silken sheets, my entire body trembling with my sobs. When I was around five years old, I made myself an imaginary friend who was the exact opposite of me, a happy-go-lucky, open and friendly girl. Alone in my room, I would talk to her and make up her responses, when I cried, I had her comfort me and stroke my hair. Even as a child, I would sink the blade of craft scissors into my skin or plunge the point of a pen or pencil into my hand, and she would always express worry for me at my self-destructive ways. However, as the years passed, she became woefully inadequate, and I increasingly aware of how pathetic I am to have no one but myself to hold.

Bitterness began to fill me, I began to hate my parents with every fiber of my being for what they forced me to endure, and I started hating myself for being such a weak and pathetic person. My constant companion was a blade I obtained by breaking a razor, adding on to the multitude of scars already decorating my wrists, and I was barely eight years old. I kept that razor under my pillow when I slept and in my pocket wherever I went, digging it into my wrist under the table while my home tutor was explaining the concept of lawsuits or how to predict the probability of earning profits to me. These days, I use the point of Myrtenaster to cut; since she is always by my side and readily available should I need her.

I hated everything back then, I wanted my parents to go to Hell and suffer for all that they had done to me; I still loathe them even now. Why are they controlling me as if I am a puppet on strings, without a mind of my own and without free will, dreams or desires? Sure, I am their daughter, but I am still an individual who has needs of her own to be recognized and met! I grew gradually defiant from the age of nine, and in the peak of my defiance, I said no to everything they wanted me to do, emptied my piggybank and fled from home. It took them a few days to find me, and when they did, there was merry Hell to pay. I could not move my body for days; it hurt to even _breathe_ after father was through with me.

After all those feelings had run their course, they left me dry, exhausted to my very core and deeply depressed. The worst of my cutting occurred during this period, a period that began when I was eleven and has still not yet ended. I was no longer resorting to self-harm once in a while but relying on it almost every night, my sheets were soaked with blood and I became a frequent visitor to the Intensive Care Unit for extreme blood loss. They should have given me a loyalty card for the amount of times I showed up there, half-dead and barely conscious. The counselors told me that I was lucky to have survived, I was like a cat with nine lives; one of them told me that some deity had saved me because I was destined for great things and I should stop hurting myself. Withdrawn into my shell, I said nothing, the peak of this period had me in the ICU twice a week and saying an average of one word a month. They had me on so many different medications that I felt hazy, as if I were in a realm between this world and the next; I came to hate those medicines and got rid of them in any way I could, flushing them down the toilet or throwing them out the window. I was determined to get off them and began to pretend that I was alright, and eventually, the cycles ceased and I was myself again.

My parents were reluctant to allow me in to Beacon, as they were not convinced that I am sane and will not kill myself at the earliest opportunity. However, the Schnee family has been burdened by a royal test that I have no choice but to take up, the law has ignored our Company's underhanded and shady methods for long and demand payment for their "kindness". Hence, my parents cannot do anything but wave me off and hope that they have heard the end of my "drama". Knowing that I will be living in shared rooms with others helped soothe them a little, for at least there are people around to call an ambulance for me should I need one.

My father insisted on locating a counselor nearby whom I was supposed to see every weekend, though the probability of me showing up is about as high as an ant is large. There is no point in me seeing counselors or therapists or whatnot, the new ones will tell me the same things as all the rest I used to see, and they will ultimately end up giving up on me for my problems are too "deep, dark and complicated". As a precaution, my father informed Professor Ozpin of my "condition" and hence, I have to act like a spoilt brat in school to throw him off. I do not want Professor Ozpin to report back to my father that I am "depressed, withdrawn and antisocial" for it will simply lead to another round of pointless intensive counseling.

When the leadership of our team, Team RWBY (a "_very creative_" name, I may add), was handed to the youngest of us all, Ruby Rose, my father called me and gave me a tongue-lashing that made me immensely grateful to be so far away from him. If he were here, I would not be able to move for a few days again, and I would probably have had to pay my "favorite" ICU another visit. After all his screaming, I promised that I would try taking the position away from Ruby, and I gave it a half-hearted shot that was doomed to failure. I acted very well, if I can say so myself, though in the end, the dying and scarred thing in my chest called a "heart" insisted on making an appearance. I have failed my father a second time, and I shudder to think of what he will do to me the next time we meet. He will most probably make the scar over my eye look like a graze…

I have chosen not to worry over the matter, for even if I do, I will not be able to change anything. Nothing and no one can save me from this terrible existence that I lead; this is the fate that I have been doomed to have. There is no escape for me, I will always be alone, I have long accepted these facts. Death is the only thing that can free me, and watched as I am, I cannot die by my own hand. That is one of the reasons that I am eager to be a top-level Huntress as soon as possible, for it will ensure me dangerous, life-threatening missions where I can get myself killed without suspicion. I want to die; my scarred soul cannot take much more of this. Slowly but surely, my act is dropping, at night, I have to sneak out of the team's dorm room and find a private spot to cry and cut; it will not be very long until I return to my old, terrible state and make the ICU my semi-permanent home.

I am a girl covered in scars, both physical and mental, a girl far too broken to ever recover. As I overheard one of my more childish counselors say, "Even Bob the Builder would say 'I can't fix that'!" No one has the ability to help me, and I will continue sliding into this bottomless pit of despair until the peaceful waves of eternal rest crash over me, consuming me completely…

I wish that someone would save me; I wish that someone could, but I know that it is not possible. I have long been labeled a goner, incurable, irreparable, a girl who is better off dead than alive. Still, I move forward pointlessly, bearing these scars, fighting a battle that I can never win and hiding from myself. My enemies cannot be defeated, I cannot even summon the strength to harm them, why on Earth am I still forcing myself to live? Oh yeah, because I cannot find a way to die...

Someday, someday, I will get what I want, and I shall be freed from my suffering. I will not have to face another day again, I will not have to take another breath again, I will not have to fake another haughty, heartless comment again... I believe that there will come a day when I will be but a memory, six feet under in a realm of peace.

_Please, someone, help me…_

**A/N: Please leave me a review telling me how I did! Thank you in advance!**

**Haruka**


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